


like they do in babylon

by interestinggin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 22:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12616636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: “I dreamed about you,” he says, around her fingers. “You were dancing.”“I don’t dance anymore,” she says, biting her lip.“But you used to.” It isn’t a question, and the certainty in his voice is like the man he was ten, twenty, fifty years ago - when he was a soldier, not a weapon - before they were cruel for the sake of being cruel. He cocks his head. “You used to dance with me.”-Two perspectives; one perfect night.





	like they do in babylon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stars_inthe_sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_inthe_sky/gifts).



> Written for the prompt 'first time post-CACW', as part of the [BuckyNat Smutathon](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/buckynat-smutathon) on tumblr.

**SHE**

He kneels before her, head tilted back like a worshipper or a prisoner. She reaches out, hands trembling just a little, and gently strokes his hair from his face.

“I know you,” he whispers. “Don’t I?”

She does not trust herself to speak; runs her fingers over his mouth. He opens it almost without thinking, like it’s a learned response, and takes them between his lips, sucking at them. His tongue is not clever, but it is enthusiastic, and he is staring at her with such a hunger in his eyes she can feel herself burning with want.

“I dreamed about you,” he says, around her fingers. “You were dancing.”

“I don’t dance anymore,” she says, biting her lip.

“But you used to.” It isn’t a question, and the certainty in his voice is like the man he was ten, twenty, fifty years ago - when he was a soldier, not a weapon - before they were cruel for the sake of being cruel. He cocks his head. “You used to dance with me.”

She lays her hand on his cheek; the stubble softens his jawline, and makes him handsome instead of harsh. She isn’t sure if she likes it.

He leans into it, hungry for her touch, and she gasps.

“ _James_ ,” she breathes.

Natasha is honestly not sure if it’s English, or Russian, or something else that comes out of her mouth, stifled in an instant by his kiss as he rises to clash his lips against hers, but what follows it needs no translation: a moan, a cry, as full of longing as she is. She tangles her fingers in his hair, and whimpers into his mouth  _jamesjamesjames_.

She pushes herself back up the bed to give him room to kneel between her legs. Her nightie bunches up around her hips and he takes a moment to feel the silk against his fingers before sliding his hand up beneath her nightdress, warm and wicked.

“Natalia - I’m not sure I remember what -”

“Sssh,” she whispers, finger to his lips. “I do.”

She nudges his hand towards her breast and he obeys, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb. She shudders with pleasure and leans up to kiss his neck, her need becoming frantic. When she pulls away she leaves red and purple marks on his skin.

 

**HE**

 James, or Bucky, or whoever he is now, gives himself over to his need, to the familiarity of her touch. He cups her breast in his hand and tries to use his stump to prop himself up, but he feels unbalanced, and when she notices and tries to interfere, he takes initiative. He scoops her up - for she is strong, but she is so perfectly small - in his arm, and puts her in his lap.

He is still between her legs, but now he has a better view.

“Russia,” he says, memories like mist. “I knew you in Russia.”

Her eyes are bright. “Don’t pretend,” she says, like she doesn’t care at all.

He keeps his arm around her waist, holding her as she straddles his hips. “I don’t think I’m any good at pretending,” he confesses. “Not when you’re - ”

“On top of you?”

“So beautiful.”

She smiles, and he knows she is a spy, but he thinks it might be real. “ _Oh, god, you’re so American_ ,” she mutters in Russian, and there are tears in her eyes. He reaches up to brush them away, but she takes his hand in hers and guides it down, lower, to where he can feel the wet heat of her pressing through his pants against his cock.

Her lips are red and full, like blood against the snow.

He woke up slowly, this time; the ice has never let him dream before, nor given him the privilege of a gentle awakening. But he woke wrapped in warm blankets, in a quiet room, with Steve at his side, and he woke with a dream or a memory of her, of the smell of her, of her in his arms and her quick, ironic smile.

He curls two fingers inside her cunt, working off instinct as much as the memories stirring in his mind of the way she likes to be touched. It squeezes around him; her breath coming now in whimpers and gasps.  His thumb brushes her clit. Natasha hisses. Her hands grip his shoulders, firm and desperate and mirroring his own want.

“Dance with me again, James,” she whispers, breath hot on his lips. His hips twitch.  _“Please_.”


End file.
